


Parma

by an_evasive_author



Series: House of Ñolofinwë [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Childhood, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_evasive_author/pseuds/an_evasive_author
Summary: Eccentricities are nothing new nor strange to the House of Finwë and all those who associate themselves with it. Both those flamboyant and those who appear rather quiet.But what is eccentricity, merely a harmless, endearing quirk of personality and what is worrisome when exhibited in a small child? Is Turukáno merely shy? Something else?Anairë seeks to find out just that. She is, after all, no stranger to those who act perhaps a tad bizarre.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Series: House of Ñolofinwë [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633537
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	1. Elegren

Nolofinwe was almost completely certain that Turukáno could read. As such he took care to put any and all texts that contained things perhaps not yet suited for such a small child too far up to reach. Even if Turukáno was an obedient, those inclined to unkindness would have perhaps gone so far as to call it prissy, he certainly would not have known which books were off-limits until the offending passage would have been reached.

 _If_ he could read. They were still uncertain of this. It certainly appeared so, the way Turukáno would often be engrossed in all manners of books. But then again, perhaps he merely admired the pictures in them. Asking him produced very few results, Turukáno had not yet uttered any word and he certainly could not write.

And indicating if he could read when presented with some written questions was simply too much, put on the spot like that, there would be very little else but tears and fretting.

“Not up for rough housing with your brother?” Nolofinwe asked even if he did not truly expected an answer and kissed Turukáno on the crown of his head when the child wobbled his ears to and fro. “Not building any pillow forts?”

Turukáno sneezed.

Nothing else seemed forthcoming after Nolofinwe had offered a kerchief and work would not wait on him. Especially once Findekáno would come bounding in and then only the Valar knew when next Nolofinwe could work again.

“Very well then,” Nolofinwe said and leaned forward, adjusting his son so he could work despite his little visitor having taken up most of the space on his lap. If it truly brought his son such joy, simply sitting there and watching his father writing, then who was Nolofinwe to deny him that.

* * *

Findekáno announced himself before any of the servants would have had any chance to do so. Not that Nolofinwe insisted on having his little son or anyone in his family announced; What a silliness that would have been.

Instead he listened to the skipping thumps outside, courtesy of a young elfling bouncing along the hallway. Over carpet and polished wood he skipped and hopped and then bounded through the door.

With his jump rope and colourful spots of chalk dust decorating him, Finno came bounding in, hair tussled and askew and smiling bright enough to rival the Trees, he certainly disrupted quiet worktime with his sheer presence.

“Atya! Come look!”

Nolofinwe turned away from whatever paper there still remained. “Come look at what?” Already he had risen from his chair, Turukáno was set down and scuttled along with his brother while.

Findekáno did not answer and instead only beseeched his father to follow.

It was time for a break anyhow.

* * *

They stood on the smooth grey stones making up the wide path into the gardens. Chalk now decorated much of it, until rain or someone with a bucket of water would wash it off. Nolofinwe did not mind chalk outside. “Tell me, winë, is it a horse?”

“No,” Finno laughed while he jumped rope.

“Turukáno, any idea?” Nolofinwe asked but was met with Turukáno burying his face in his father's robes. There came a little meeping whine for being put on the spot so and nothing else seemed forthcoming.

“A hound?”

“No.”

“A hare?”

“No.” More jumping.

It could easily go like this for a while. Finno was endlessly creative and took special joy in making his creations as colourful as possible, adding parts to animals he would truly have liked to see on them as well. Because a bunny was all well and good. But bunnies with _tusks_? An entirely different kind of amazing.

There would be birds with firefly wings, hounds with long, sticky tongues. Finno looked upon the world that he had been given, taken a long look at it and said “That's nice,” before creating his own.

Nolofinwe, who would be the very first to admit that he himself was perhaps a little lacking when it came to such instinctive, impromptu displays of creativity, liked to witness them.

What little world lived in Turukáno's head? Waiting to get out. Once he would overcome that silent shyness and a drive for perfection that forbade him from even trying.

“Atya, hurry up!” Finno called as Nolofinwe was still trying to puzzle if he was looking at a trunk or a tail. “I'm hungry!”

“The two of you are free to leave at any time,” Nolofinwe replied and followed the swirls with his eyes, “Don't let me stop you.”

“ _Nuh_ -uh.”

Turukáno, perfectly comfortable where he was, fumbled for the jump rope until Findekáno handed it over.

Nolofinwe hummed serenely to himself, wondering and combing through the wobbly lines until finally, “A snake?”

Endlessly proud, “A slowworm! But with _legs_!”

To argue that perhaps a lizard would have been a more apt choice then would have been futile for many a reason, though mostly for the fact that Nolofinwe, too, wanted supper.

* * *

Important documents were cleaned up and carefully put aside. It had taken only one court assembly with his notes in well-meant disarray, ponies and dogs and other things scrawled all over his neat handwriting to make him mind this lesson.

Turukáno pulled at Findekáno to make room before he too dove into the chest where all toys waited for their owners instead of being handy obstacles to stumble over, and came away with paper and his wooden box filled with pastels.

Findekáno did not care much for those; His interest lay sorely and squarely in wooden figurines and things one could throw about. Tactile and solid, not so much artistic and whimsical. Well, a little, some books were nice. Those about swords and fights and other grand feats.

But not this time. Now was the time for building blocks and pillow fights. Findekáno dove back, dug around and emerged with felted horses and riders perched precariously on top of little saddles. He sorted them out, his entire cavalry and gave them all squinting stares, searching for something.

“You can have these ones,” Findekáno said and handed his father the grey horses. One had he rider fallen off long ago, perhaps they were spending time with the other dolls lounging about in the toy chest.

Nolofinwe took his chosen champions, his little herd of grey horses and blue riders and rolled over onto his stomach.

Anairë watched them from her place at the table. Turukáno had been too shy to ask for companionship outright but the signs had been incredibly unsubtle. He would nervously sidle up next to her and grab for the hem of the dress. Perhaps he would tug a little, eyes searching and quickly averting when he found that she noticed.

There was only so long she could keep herself from laughing and it would have hurt Turukáno endlessly. So she, simply by coincidence of course, would fetch something to do and sit at the table while Turukáno worked.

Though she was not allowed to peak under threat of tantrums and crying fits, Turukáno still wished for someone to sit with.

She had watercolours and not a single speck of inspiration while Turukáno carefully measured away with his ruler; Drawing clean, neat lines.

It was endearing, had been in the beginning, at least. To see him draw his little pictures with perfect lines and circles; Dividers and ruler as ever present as his waxed pastels which had never once been tentatively nibbled at.

So very well behaved, so proper and prim. Really, it worried her. Especially when compared to Findekáno who had grown out of supplementing his diet with wax and pigment and other things not meant for snacking, was even now more blithely at that age than Turukáno had ever been.

He was so very hard with himself.

Things were either done perfectly or they would be done not at all. He refused to speak at an age long past where they had barely been able to keep Findekáno from chattering from Waxing to Waning. How much was delayed because Turukáno was not Findekáno? And what was not? There was very little in the way of help...

* * *

She looked up just in time to see Findekáno jump onto his father and take the battle right up there what horses and riders had not been able to carry out satisfactory. Nolofinwe laughed and many a brave felted horse was squished under him as he fell back.

There was laughter and Turukáno looked up to see what the ruckus was about before turning back to his drawing. Uninterested in any wrestling, forever averse to such rough brutishness. Instead he rifled through the pastels, skipped over blue and red and yellow right towards orange which had been neglected so far.

There could not be such disarray amongst his pastels, one so much longer than the others. Oh no, there would be orange in this picture. And, judging by the pristine state of it, there would be quite a _lot_ of orange.

Anairë, not to be outdone in gritty determination to get something on paper, sketched out the Trees and twirled her brush before dipping it in water.

* * *

She made a decision then, under the silver glow of Telperion, with her husband curled comfortably next to her.

His still open book rested on his chest, one thump hooked between the pages in a vain endeavour to appear still invested and miserably failing. His free hand toyed with one of Anairë's tresses.

“I shall visit my parents on the Waxing, I think,” Anairë said, pulled her hair away and snorted when Nolofinwe's hand found another one to roll between his fingers.

They could not _ignore_ Turukáno's behaviour, for doing so would only invite harm and trouble later on.

“Hm?” Nolofinwe hummed and abandoned his book entirely. “Any particular reason? Did I miss something? I thought your father insisted on appointments?”

Anairë smiled and circled one of Nolofinwe's ears, watching it twitch in mild amusement, “Not with me, silly goose,” Though the number of visitors comfortably able to dwell in her parents estate was very, _very_ small. Not so much because of the _size_ , really, not once had she ever felt as if the house had been too small. Austerely furnished, yes. But for no other reason but personal taste. No elf who enjoyed Finwë's patronage lived frugal by necessity.

“I was wondering if I should not ask them if they know anything about Turukáno's behaviour.”

Nolofinwe turned over and the soft clunk of his book falling forgotten from the bed and onto the carpet made Anairë twitch her ears. “I do not see why not. Might do them good.” And it was not as if it was too far away. They could be back by supper, just enough time for a story and a good pillow fight. “And when was the last time you got outside of the gardens?”

“I am perfectly fine with the gardens, I will have you know.” Though to be fair, it really had been quite some time. “Oh alright, fine, you win. The children and I shall go then.”

“The three of you; Very well,” Nolofinwe said. “Leave me alone with Fëanáro in the council meeting then; But do not be surprised if you come home to my shredded remains.” Thoughtful, “Shredded and incinerated, let us be honest.”

“Have someone sit in between you and him then,” Anairë said and smirked innocently when Nolofinwe rolled his eyes. “It will give you a head start whilst he busies himself with whatever poor soul you serve him up.”

“No one _wants_ to sit next to him, love. And the worst part is that I cannot blame anyone for it.” Who could hate someone for acting on their survival instincts, after all.

“Then I thank you for your noble sacrifice, my prince. Truly, a worthy-- Ai!” The rest was drowned as they rolled over, locked in a merciless tickle fight. Amongst other things.

They giggled like children and more than one pillow got thrown out in their playful romping.

“It's the right thing to do,” Nolofinwe said when they had both regained their wits and most of their clothes and lay together under the blankets. “Turu is a little eccentric, there is nothing wrong about that.”

“Hm,” Anairë agreed, though it was so very hard to concentrate with the way Nolofinwe stroked her shoulder.

“And besides,” her husband said, “Who better to see what is eccentricity and what is worrying than your side of the family.” Did he grin at that? Anairë was almost certain. He was not entirely wrong, of course, but some token outrage on her family's behalf was in order.

“Are you implying my parents are strange, Nolofinwe?”

“Hm, oh no, don't be silly.” He _did_ grin, the cur! And before she could caution him on behaving properly, he had already said it. “All of you are.”

This would not stand! “ _Nolofinwe_!” she gasped in outrage and slapped him with the first pillow she could get a hold of.

* * *

Nolofinwe had turned onto his stomach, she could see one arm dangle off the mattress, begging to be pulled at by Findekáno who liked waking his parents. She had draped herself halfway over him, felt his warmth rising through the fabric of his sleeping garments.

She was so close to sleep. But thoughts still demanded pondering and she indulged even if it meant loosing thoughtless rest later.

Turukáno was loved. She knew this as surely as she knew how to draw air. But the nagging in the back of her head, the one that whispered ugly things to her when Nolofinwe snored beside her, that voice had been scratching at her so badly lately.

She could have asked her in-laws. They would have jumped at the chance and no resource would have been left unused. It was nice, of course. To have the reach of the Crown at her fingertips, if only tangentially. 

If nothing turned up, she would go to Finwë and Indis; It was not, after all, pride that held her back. But she would also not come running for every little thing when the answer might be both perfectly ordinary as well as only as concerning in her own head.

An outsiders perspective might be just what they needed, for Turukáno was loved but perhaps not entirely understood.

Much like her parents and most especially her father. Perhaps they would get along. At the very least, her boys would meet their other grandparents and was that alone not a worthy endeavour?

Surely, it was. With such thoughts swirling about, she slept.…

The time after waking was quite rough. Not yet in the mood for breakfast, indeed feeling rather queasy at the thought, Turukáno mewled and yawned before leaning against his mother who pulled him in and stroked his breath whilst he muttered.

He was, in this regard, very much like his father who could not be moved to much more than tea.

If left to his own devices, Turukáno would have slept away until well after lunch and what little elf should spend all his waking time under Telperion and never enjoy the warmth of Laurelin? Findekáno, in contrast, would be up even before his parents and would happily patter on an on to any servant who might wander the halls.

Turukáno was allowed to doze, wrapped in his blue blanket, after being plucked from his bed. Hunger would come soon enough and a bowl of oatmeal had been set aside, with a bit of sweetness and raisins to it. He looked like a blue chrysalis, wrapped up as he was. And once ready, a hungry, chipper child would emerge, yearning for breakfast and playtime with his brother.

Findekáno, chipper from the moment his eyes opened, busied himself with whatever edibles stood in reach and guzzled goat milk with honey.

He had grown and had an appetite to match. They had barely managed to set a plate in front of him before everything on it vanished, inhaled as if they had not fed him for an age.

* * *

“Are they nice?” Findekáno asked between eviscerating a slice of buttered bread. Plans had been announced, discussed until all members of the family had been filled in and then breakfast had continued undisturbed for a while. Right up until Finno looked up and asked.

Nolofinwe hummed and smiled behind his cup. “In their own way.” He chuckled to himself and had there been a pillow available, Anairë would have had no quarrels about continuing their conversation.

“They _are_. Though they might take a little time getting used to,” Anairë said. It was usually a good idea to...prepare others for meetings with them. It would not have been the first time, she still remembered her carefully thought out ways she would ease those who were not quite aware just what would follow.

Up until the moment she remembered to just whom she was speaking. Finno looked up, waiting for something else in a way of explanation. He chewed still, however. His ears bopped up and down.

“Never you mind, I do believe you will get along just fine.”

Turukáno mewed, demanding breakfast. Anairë set him down onto his chair and Nolofinwe presented him with his oatmeal.  
  


* * *

Out of the stable, dabbled coat freshly brushed and hooves newly shod, pranced Tittalombo, most spoiled pony in all of Aman. He snorted, tossed his yellow mane and shoved his snoot against Findekáno's pockets to demand for treats. Not a moment before would he allow to be saddled.

Findekáno, dutiful owner and sole reason for Tittalombo's spoiled existence, laughed and handed over carrots by the handful. Once so appeased, the pony did not object to being squeezed. Findekáno threw his arms around his mount's neck and did just that.

“Finno, love, are you sure you want to have Turukáno with you on the pony? You have never taken such a long ride on your own.” Speaking it aloud only drove home all the keener just how fast Findekáno had grown. It seemed only moments ago that he had ridden with them on the same horse, too small to even straddle the saddle properly.

She remembered the way Findekáno had stared with wide eyes from his little perch from either Nolofinwe' or her own horse, waving about and far too small to even grab the handle for safety. Instead they had ridden with one hand slung around the child.

That had changed, felt like an age away. Now he had his own, though far smaller Findekáno, forever optimistic and so very eager to show his skills in both pony and brother rearing, nodded. “I can do it, you'll see. Right Turu?”

Turukáno looked at the pony and then at his brother before giving a bleating cry. There were no tears, he was not _entirely_ opposed to the idea of riding with his brother but some convincing and encouragement would be needed.

Anairë stroked his head and Findekáno searched around in his own pockets until another carrot was dug up. “Want one?” he offered.

Turukáno munched quietly, grey eyes gazing around the assembled procession while his free hand had anchored itself firmly in Anairë's travelling robes.

“It is not too late to abscond with me,” Anairë said when Nolofinwe had wandered up behind her and kissed her neck before coming to a stand next to her. He faintly jingled as he walked, already done up with jewellery befitting his place and under different circumstances Anairë would not have been far off, perhaps even outdone him. But too much decoration had a way of getting in the way of a proper ride.

It would have been terribly improper, of course. Just to think, a prince running from his duties, the discrepancy! Oh, but was the idea not so very exciting?

Nolofinwe chuckled but shook his head, “I would, I would in a heartbeat if I only could.”

“We shall think of you, then,” Anairë said and leaned back against him.

Nolofinwe hummed and then turned to regard Findekáno, “Finno, saddle up. Show me what you learned.” And quieter, so only Anairë would hear, “Last time he tied the saddle the wrong way around.”

They giggled quietly to themselves, so quiet that Finno would not hear them as he threw the saddle blanket over Tittalombo's back and set to work.

Turukáno watched but would not be coaxed from behind his parents. Instead he looked at the remaining stump of his carrot, uncertain on how to proceed.

Anairë's mare Telepsië was trotted out, already saddled and her curly coat brushed until it shone. Turukáno mewed about when this large creature began nosing about. Far gentler than Tittalombo, had it been the pony there would have been slobbering demanding stomping. But she was also far bigger than the pony and when she flapped her lips at him, the chunk of carrot was requested, inspected and then crunched down.

By the time Telepsië had finished her treat, Findekáno was finished with his work. “Look, atya!”

Nolofinwe stepped forth, dutifully, and inspected what Findekáno had done. Straps not too tight, a little loose in fact. He pulled them properly and Tittalombo allowed it. The rest, “Flawless,” Nolofinwe praised earnestly.

Now to get Turukáno on there without much fussing. But perhaps he was feeling brave enough to try it. Certainly he looked chipper, carefully stroking Telepsië's soft nose instead of sounding warbling distress. A good sign.

Findekáno received his little brother as he was lifted onto the saddle and complained not when arms squeezed him tightly.

“Hands on the reigns, gentle with the roweling; No silliness and no boasting while riding,” Nolofinwe impressed.

“Yes, atya,” Findekáno nodded. Turukáno chirped and held onto his brother.

Satisfied, Nolofinwe nodded and kissed his forehead before moving on to Turukáno, “And you, you make yourself known if your arms get tired or you want to ride with your mother, you hear?”

Turukáno nodded and was also kissed.

“And at last,” Nolofinwe said when he reached his wife who looked down at him.

“Any tips for me, too?” Anairë laughed and leaned down to kiss him.

“No,” Nolofinwe replied when they parted, “You are simply hopeless.”

Gasping, a hand on her chest, Anairë tossed her head, “Of all the _nerve_! Boys, we go. Until the Waning, you _brazen_ prince.”

They called their goodbyes and Anairë led on.

Snorting, Tittalombo stomped proudly behind Telepsië with his short legs, tossing his corn mane to and fro.

They waved Nolofinwe before he vanished out of sight, the last thing visible from him was his circlet gleaming in the light.

And with that, off they were towards adventure.


	2. Cávima

Fingon remained upbeat and chipper even as Tirion's white walls and golden towers grew smaller behind them. Never quite out of sight but glittering under golden light. The houses here, at the very outskirts of the city grew further apart, the gardens more spacious until they spanned acres. There was so much to point at and inquire and since Findekáno had taken it up on himself to ask for Turukáno as well, the questions did not cease. Orchards wafted alluring scents of fruit towards them and branches so ladden with fruit hangingheavily onto the street to entice little elves to pluck a few.

Stables and barns, grain silos or fields dotted the properties, pastures for cattle or horses grew ever more present. Once the air smelled of the sharp unpleasantness that accompanied tanning and both Findekáno and Turukáno expressed their immense distaste until it passed.

They were the houses, of artisans and craftspeople, the lot of them. Crafts that needed room, that would bother those in the high city. All those who needed space to work their trades could be found here. They passed the beekeepers with the flowering pastures and Turukáno squeaked miserably at being accosted by a bee before Findekáno bravely shooed it away.

Basking in the adoration of his brother for being saved, Finno naturally was in a fantastic mood for the rest of the ride even if Anairë could see his legs twitching from an ever growing need to _run_. He would be able to soon. She remembered the hallways of her old home, wide enough to skip through and thick enough carpets to take a good tumble and not overly regret it. The gardens as well, enough room to explore. 

The break they had taken had scarcely been enough to get Finno sitting down enough to drink water.

It was, all things considered, not _that_ grand a manse. Certainly it had looked bigger when she had been small, and her memories of it might have been exaggerated a little, but still it was nothing to sneeze at. It had once been her only home. No longer so, true. And most things would have paled before a palace or the grand mansions of an elven prince; Not that she was complaining any.

But this was were she had grown up and she regarded it fondly. The walls, what little could be seen of them poking put from between climbing ivy, were much the same white and the latticed windows were just as beautifully carved as any home in the city. But no golden tower graced its roof and no glittering paths led to it.

Instead the way was flattened earth, with shrubbery and wild flowers as their only retinue standing in waiting.

It looked sleepy, unconcerned for the bustle of Tirion in the distance, content to doze away the years. Not quite as straightened out and spic and span as the houses of the city.

Finno, not quite as attached to this sleepy house and scruffy, half-wild garden, indeed, entirely used to a different standard, laughed brightly, “Look! It's so _small_.”

“It is far bigger than most wrights can hope for,” Anairë said stiffly. Big enough to require help in its upkeep. Did Lumbulener still work within the walls of home? Silent and discreet, as to not spook her skittish father? She could not truly picture him anywhere else but in the rooms and hallways, wandering about with that quiet, dignified manner.

Fingon chewed his lip and looked the picture of dubious, “How many good places to play hide in can there be?” A very important question. Such things needed to be considered for a proper judgment and much rode on Anairë's answer. Outright dismissal or acceptance of her childhood home.

The mounts trotted along the path, ever along wild grasses and trees. Hemp agrimony brushed at the horses sides and Tittalombo snapped down, perhaps annoyed or bored, to bite at one.

“Oh,” Anairë said, carefully dismissive, too excited and Finno would never believe her, and smiled, “You shall see.”

There was, after all, more to it than merely the outside.

* * *

Turukáno yawned, quietly and with both hands clapped to his mouth. What a long journey it had been; An adventure in itself. Never before had he ever ventured out so far and the fine tremble in his ears remained the very last sign that he was still not at ease.

Anairë smiled to herself, both her boys had been so very good and there had been an absolute minimum of complaining.

No gates barred them entry, no sentries at the perimeters. It stood open for those who wished to approach; Whatever deterrent there was to keep nosy visitors away was the placement of the house itself. One would have to be truly bored to make the journey for the sole reason to snoop about.

They were spotted by the staff...well, the _one_ servant, really. Lumbulener, busy with whatever it was he had been doing, waved once he saw them through the window of the kitchen.

Turukáno, so far mostly quiet and reserved, spotted the stranger as they passed the edge of the gardens, squeaked alarmed and shifted about.

“Amil, who's that?” Findekáno asked and pointed unabashedly at the tall figure making his way down the short stairs to receive them.

“A friend,” Anairë laughed and waved back.

* * *

“We had not expected you, _heri_ ,” Lumbulener said when he led the horse and pony to the little stable.

Turukáno had not yet been helped down and so he stared at this stranger, wide-eyed and suspicious. But there had not yet been tears nor flailing, a very good sign. Anairë took her chance and allowed her youngest son a little exposure.

“I thought it would be fun to visit, you know, bring the children,” Anairë said and closed the door behind her own horse. “So others may find joy in Finno's antics.”

Findekáno, meanwhile, waddled around, bow-legged and wobbly, to shake the tingling numbness from his limbs.

Once the mounts had been led inside the stable and towards two of the five spaces, Anairë lifted Turukáno, kissed the top of his head and lowered him for convenient escape which was eagerly taken advantage off. Finno, the next best option for safe familiarity, was sought out and hands grabbed for his older brother.

Grandparents needed to be upheld to certain standards. Were there any interesting things around? Were the sweets any good and were they plenty when demanded? Toys? Would these elusive grandparents play when expected to?

Such things needed to be found out, carefully considered and only then could proper judgment be passed down. Outside the stall, past the fenced off peace of land where three horses munched peacefully, Findekáno plotted about, brother safely in tow.

A few chickens scratched in the dirt, muttering musingly to themselves in their chicken language while their rooster paraded about. Chickens, _good_. At least that. But no chicks which would have been much better. Findekáno pursed his lips “Hm...”

Flowers, bushes and shrubs, all growing a little wilder than than even Maedhros' home and certainly more than their own little garden. How exciting! Perhaps there were wild berries somewhere in there.

But delectable berries or not, this was, so far, lacking. But Findekáno was nothing if not forgiving and so he would wait and give them another chance to prove themselves.

“Are there any animals around? Other than chickens,” Findekáno called when they convened back in the stable.

“Horses?” Lumbulener suggested and wrested his dish rag away from Tittalombo before it was hopelessly chewed up. Wash cloths were not at all beneficial to the equine diet, after all.

“Nuh-uh! Others! Something exciting!”

Turukáno tried to slip away and groused quietly when the hand grabbing his own would not give. But he did not try all that hard to get out of his brother's grasp.

So put on the spot, Lumbulener visibly rifled through every memory of spotted critters and grasped for the first scurrying creature that came to mind, desperately, “Field hamsters?”

“Hamsters?” Eyes alight with endless joy, Finno laughed and bounded about the hay covered floor of the stable. Why, a hamster sounded very interesting indeed. He had only ever seen them in colourful illustrations.

“Later, Finno. We have only just arrived,” Anairë said and patted his head, “We will have something to drink first, I should think. Field hamsters later.”

Findekáno's exuberance came to a halt and he sighed as if he carried with him the weight of an age. “Aw....” Clearly, her priorities were all wrong and under different circumstances Finno would have forgiven it. But he had been sitting on his pony for so long, with breaks in between never sufficing, and he wanted to play. To play and to run and perhaps see a hamster _right now_.

There was something that had caught Findekáno's attention. “He's wearing _mittens_ ,” Findekáno whispered and did so loudly, perhaps hoping his mother would hear him. She did. So did Lumbulener and Anairë could see his ears wiggle in perfectly composed amusement.

“Those are his gloves, dear. And don't whisper, it is rude.”

“Oh!” Findekáno said and looked quite mortified.

Of course he did not wish to be _rude_ , certainly not. Findekáno turned to Lumbulener to address him, “Why are you wearing gloves?” he called, loud enough so _everyone_ would hear. There would be no chance to mistake it for whispering. None at all.

Turukáno gave a startled squeak at the sudden noise and looked terribly displeased at such unannounced ruckus.

“Finno...” Anairë sighed and sighed again when Findekáno beamed up at her, endlessly proud of himself. How hard it was to be cross with him.

Lumbulener chuckled, “I do not see any harm in asking, _heri_. You too, I remember, asked me about the gloves in my drawer.”

“Because fifteen pairs are excessive, you can hardly blame me for wondering,” Anairë said.

“Or for confiscating them for yourself?” He asked, any mischievousness grinning hidden away behind professionalism. “Of course not; I would never dream of it.”

She could hardly reply to that, save with a very ladylike snort and flushed cheeks. She would get him for that. Later. When an opportunity revealed itself.

“Do you always wear them? How do you bathe then?” Findekáno asked before there had even been an answer to his previous inquiry, such questions were important, after all, they needed to be rattled off right away.

And really, how _was_ one supposed to play in the streams outside, or bathe with those? Why, he could already imagine it; Gloves all soggy and muddy, that did not sound like fun. Soggy clothing, in a bout of true irony, was never fun even though getting them wet usually was.

“Usually with water, like most,” Lumbulener replied easily and it seemed Finno was either perfectly satisfied with such an answer or feared to be impolite again if he inquired further.

Instead Finno returned to his self-appointed obligation to engage Turukáno in one-sided conversation and talk for them both. A tough responsibility, but one he fulfilled dutifully. Such was the thankless work of an oldest sibling.

They watched them trundle along, Finno pointing everything interesting out for Turukáno.

“I am glad to find you here still,” Anairë said and meant it. She had missed his unflappable manner.

“Who else would indulge my demands but your lord and lady parents?” Lumbulener asked and carefully adjusted his gloves. “I like it here, though it has become quiet since you left, if I may say.”

Anairë laughed, from behind her slender hand, “Oh, you don't like peace and quiet?”

She could see his ears gently, ever steadily fold back against his sooty wealth of hair. “I augur ill...”

She continued and smiled all the while, “Why, how nice for you, then, that I brought Finno with me. We will sort that pesky calm right out.”

“...Must I be worried?”

At this she laughed, even more so at the confused look Finno gave her. She petted his head and turned to Lumbulener, “Perhaps. It entirely depends how bored we let him become.”

“Ai,” Lumbulener sighed and vowed to lock the cabinets. There was a precedent with the now not so young lady and her fondness of stealing the fine plates use them for her dolls.

* * *

They all had their own prowling grounds, Anairë remembered fondly. It had made for wonderful predictability and when they rounded another corner towards the living room, she noted that nothing had changed.

Squeaked alarm marked the moment Turukáno saw his grandmother for the first time, though she certainly looked equally as surprised.

Uncaring to what manners dictated, she came pacing down the hallway and in a flurry motion, Anairë was swept away and into her mother's unyielding embrace. Vaguely, she felt Turukáno, who had been equally caught of guard by the vanishing of his privacy shield, once more return behind her and grab her dress.

“Look who found their way here,” Airë called and noted her daughter's entourage. “And look what she has brought.”

Findekáno, undeterred by his brother's flight behind their mother, looked up.

How did one introduce oneself to one's grandmother? He certainly could not remember how it had went with haru Finwë and haruni Indis. They had always been just there. He found himself hesitant and stopped in his tracks. How did one make friends with a new grandma? So much pressure.

Airë leaned down to inspect him. Fingon gazed back at her, for a moment looking undaunted and fearless. He _squeaked_ when she winked at him, but only once to show that he was unafraid! It did not work, he did not even convince himself. What a terrible oldest brother he was; Not even able to be brave in front of family. “Shy?” his grandmother asked and smirked.

Finno shook his head but fumbled for words. He opted for blushing instead and his ears trembled and wilted a little. Not even Anaire's comforting fingers through his hair seemed to cheer him up any.

Out of ideas, Airë returned her attentions to her daughter. “How nice to have guests over, your father will be _thrilled_ , I'm sure.”

“So thrilled he will lock the door and refuse to come out.”

“Of course not, silly girl, I had the lock taken off.” Airë waved her off. “Speaking of which, Lumbulener, would you lock the cellar door? Most unsuited for children, I was told.” Airë flared her nostrils, “And who am I to disagree with them?”

“At once, my lady.” The sound of many a layer of robe brushing past the corner hastily rounded to comply with her orders. 

No doubt did her mother feel competent and on top of the situation, she had her hands against her hips and laughed, “And here I thought I did not know how to handle small children, would you believe that?”

Anairë smiled, “Whatever gave you such an idea, amil?”

“What's in the cellar?” Findekáno asked, grey eyes wide with newfound wonder and curiosity.

“Things little elves need not concern themselves with,” Anairë said and cut off all protesting and assurances of Finno's maturity.

“Instead,” Airë offered, “How about we sit down somewhere, rest a little. Adventurers brave as you need refreshments.”

Confidence reinforced this way and with the promise of treats silencing whatever doubts still lingered, Finno for his part was convinced. Greed won over shyness in this case, it seemed. If only it was so easy with Turukáno... But where Findekáno went, Turukáno had very little chance but to follow, if only by the virtue of being too polite to say otherwise.

* * *

Nothing of note had changed. Even the rugs, certainly replaced after being worn out, had the same pattern. The paintings, however sparingly placed, still there. Hulking, monstrous canvases depicting the Trees or Lake Cuivinen. Her mother had always been fond of the Lake and whatever it was she had been up to there, in the very first moments of Elvenkind.

And there, between another landscape and their family portrait, was _that_ one. Amidst beauty and magnificence sat a little, lightly crumbled painting she herself had made when she had been not much more than a silly little girl. Anairë grimaced and though sneering was not a proper look for a lady, she could hardly help herself when looking at the perfectly misplaced, childish scribble among much more pretty art.

She stopped and leaned a little more in to look at it with even greater contempt.

“Don't you even think about touching that, Anairë,” her mother scolded just as Anairë had reached out to remove all traces of this _mistake_. She could do so much better. Nothing ever worthy of truly hanging here between paintings... But not _this_.

“It looks _horrible_ , I don't want this here,” Anairë said, whined nearly, but remembered herself, wishing that her burning contempt for the drawing would set fire to the thing. What did this even do here? What was this even supposed to be? A horse, perhaps? A hillside? It was a mess from any angle she considered it.

“Do not dare; I decide what stays and this one does,” Airë called over her back. She did not stop when Anairë had and already had she nearly vanished around the corner.

Finno pattered dutifully behind her, the promise of baked treats too tempting to pass up. Turukáno clung to his hand as he was pulled along. There had been the promise of sweets and of playing and that was really all Findekáno needed to be convinced.

“Come along now, silly girl; Leave the décor be and have tea with us.” And then the group was gone, leaving her there in the hallway.

She could have been petty, it would have been easy to tear it off the wall, now that they had rounded the corner. She twitched her fingers in a half-hearted attempt towards the picture.

Sighing, she turned and followed along. There were, after all, more pressing matters to be addressed.


	3. Vorosanya

Very little had changed, Anairë noted, when they sat in the dining room. Not that she was about to complain, certainly not.

Yes, the chair felt a little smaller and the tablecloth was a different one from when she had left. But much was still as it had been. The air smelled of polished wood and the ever lingering scent of the fine bread Lumbulener was fond of baking.

With her eyes closed, Anairë had tried to capture her childhood and was instead treated to the sounds of her sons slurping juice to varying degrees of dreadful noise. Her ears flicked but alas the guzzling continued undeterred until there were two glasses plunked down on the table, contents inhaled to the last drop.

At least nothing had spilled, if only by virtue of being sucked down so fast that nothing could escape her greedy elflings.

She could do little more than express her disdain with a turned up nose, for no help would come from anyone at the table if she were to insist on manners. All had turned against her. She would have to suffer their boorish behaviour in silence. Indeed, the only one who might have sided with her was currently fussing about in the kitchen, preparing teacakes.

Airë had suggested using the leftovers from their previous tea and the look Lumbulener had sported suggested that he would sooner burn the house down than having his guests suffer the indignity of eating slightly stale teacakes.

At least someone in this house had their priorities set straight.

Empty glasses traded places with full cups, green tea and teacakes, the ones he always made, milk-washed and raisin-stuffed, were served and received enthusiastically. Elegant in their simplicity; Coincidentally a good virtue to strive for, something a lady appreciate and thus it was perfectly acceptable to indulge in them.

Finno ate three, found no great desire to drink tea and instead went to find distraction, still chewing.

“Well then,” Airë said and clapped her hands together when Turukáno had retreated to the safety of his brother. “I know that you are not simply here to steal my decorations--”

“I was _not_!”

“--So then won't you start at the beginning?”

Anairë did. There came a great outpouring of her heart, most of worries but also tea flowed freely. Anairë laid out what had troubled her so, the thoughts that had kept her restless and the justifications she had tried to hammer into shape to soothe herself.

They watched Finno and Turu drawing on the same sheet of paper and listened to Turukáno's steadily increasing griping when no order could be established and swirly curls intruded upon neat lines and angles.

Anairë smiled even as her heart hung heavy. “I wish simply for counsel. Just a little reassurance that he will be alright.”

Airë laughed and slopped a little tea into her saucer. Nothing about it was restrained or demure. “You came to the _wrong_ elves to ask that question, you silly girl.”

“Amil, don't be so dismissive,” Anairë called and did not whine nor stomp her foot though she very much wanted to. What a terrible example she would be to her sons who slurped their tea so politely. Findekáno had helpfully fixed Turukáno's tea for him and now whenever he stirred, the grittiness of undiluted sugar could be hear scraping along the cup's bottom.

“ _Heri_ _pí_ , I am not,” Airë said after a while, wheezing still and when Anairë remained visibly doubtful, she repeated, “I'm _not_. You should know by now how bad your father and I are with these sort of things. Lumbulener has a greater chance at giving you advice in these matters.”

“I can listen and act as if I know what to do in situations such as these if anyone needs me,” Lumbulener offered when he brought out another pot of tea. He refilled the empty cups and took the sugar bowl with him to refill that too. Such depletion of the reserves all of a sudden, how unfamiliar.

“We can try,” Airë conceded finally. “But if you wish to find out if any of this is strange, then we really are the wrong people to counsel with. Have you thought about your in-laws? I'm sure they would know how to help.”

“I do not want to go to Indis and Finwë for every little thing; They will think me incompetent.”

She was met with confused blinking and Airë cocked her head, “...Would that be so bad?”

“Would th-- _Amil_! I do not want to look like an imbecile in front of my husband and his family.”

Airë waved her off, “Oh, they would hardly mind, I'm sure. Look at your father and me; If they cared where would we be now?”

“ _I_ would mind,” Anairë said and searched around for another teacake to nibble daintily on. “I wish to understand my son and his whims.”

“Heripí, he uses a ruler for his drawings and does not speak,” Airë reminded her. “That sounds hardly like something dangerous.”

“I know that-- I hope so... But--” Anairë tried and faltered.

Her mother rolled her eyes in the same way she had done when a _little_ Anairë had desperately tried to argue the point that another sequinned dress would be very important to be a proper Lady.

“What?” Anairë asked indignantly. She had hoped for it to sound sharp and hard but what came out was barely more than a tired sigh. She did not feel very sophisticated. The knowledge that her mother had stripped away her reassured elegance with nary a try nor any true intention made it no kinder. Not at all.

“I am glad you came now instead of later, we can sort this mess out right now,” Airë shrugged and leaned to the side to call past Anairë, “Findekáno, would you come here for a moment?”

His apprehension utterly lost, once more bright eyed and happy, cake had that effect, Finno trudged closer while Turu took his chance to claim a little more space on their shared paper.

“Turu's great,” Finno confirmed without hesitation. “He's fun to be around; I like him.” With that matter settled, no new question forthcoming, he grabbed for another pastry and his cup of now lukewarm tea as Airë gazed at him.

Anairë watched them both, could see something taking place, some mutual understanding between the two across from her. Whatever it was, both seemed to be satisfied with that answer.

Airë laughed, ruffled Finno's hair and pulled apart her own teacake to sort out the raisins for later. “You see? Truer words could never be spoken. Your father would say the same.”

Anairë sighed. Turukáno flicked his ears and abandoned his drawing. Sensitive to his mother's distress, he grabbed for her dress and pulled at the hem until she petted his head and handed him another pastry.

Findekáno blinked and looked up at his grandmother, “Where _is_ haru?” And the fact that Findekáno had not hesitated nor been shy about fully embracing another pair of grandparents in that endless heart of his brought Anairë endless joy. They were another _Haru_ and another _Haruni_ as much as Finwë and Indis were. Simply like that.

Findekáno swallowed his pastry and grabbed for the remaining sweetener, honey this time for there was no sugar left, to dewater his tea until it resembled syrup more than anything else, “Does he hide?”

“Oh, he does, nion. He does. Hiding in his stuffy workshop, longing, waiting for brave heroes to snoop about and make his life a little exciting.” Which was both a blatant lie and all the incitement to wild action Findekáno needed.

Findekáno beamed brightly, “I can do that!” And surely a grandfather, any grandfather, even one never met, could not squeeze into the same fantastic hiding places Findekáno could come up with?

“ _Well_ ,” Airë said, leaned in close as if to conspire with him and smirked fiendishly, “I suppose with your help, we shall find him yet.”

“Amil, that it devious.”

“Oh hush, if no one comes to him then from where will he get his excitement? Certainly he will not venture out for it. I should know,” she said and turned back to her grandsons to entice them further to the prospect of grandfather hunting.

Turukáno, perfectly content with chewing quietly, shared none of the outward enthusiasm of his brother. But his ears flicked about and he smiled a timid smile when Findekáno grabbed for him and pulled his little brother closer.

Airë's blessing so freely given, Findekáno eagerly chomping at the bit for a little excitement and Turukáno enthused enough to not bolt, Anairë led them towards the workshop where her father dwelled.

* * *

Findekáno chattered excitedly right up until Anairë pushed open the doors. Stalking quietly, giggling only when agitated joy became too great to bear, he imagined himself a great hunter, Anairë supposed.

Nearly half the house was dedicated to Parmamo's work, the very reason they had such a lovely home in the first place. For Finwë adored artists of all kinds and none more than those Founders that brought new beauty to the world.

And he showed his adoration for beauty, love and dedication with titles that granted nobility, amongst other things. And one, of course, did not refuse Finwë and his whims.

There had not been any grand ceremony, no fanfare. Only a few quiet words of praise, an little addition into the documents that held the noble peerage and a slip of parchment that promised funding as well as an eager request to make books to fill a library.

And one did not refuse Finwë, after all.

Shelves lined the walls here, made a maze from where they stood in the room, aligned to a design that made sense to the one living between them.

Finno, much as she had done when she had been his age, made to scurry into the passages and the hidden spaces. Eager to sniff out his grandfather's supposed hiding place, unconcerned by the strange environment.

His aimless wandering through the workshop's hallways made noise. Noise that would scare Parmamo right off. In fact, even Turukáno seemed just about ready to bolt.

“Don't wander off too far,” she reminded Findekáno and would not hear his insistence on strategy and the importance of cornering quarry. Instead, she soothed an increasingly nervy Turukáno next to her and remained firmly on the carpets that marked what had once been meant to be the sole hallway. So worn and faded, threadbare to the point of rendering the motif on it invisible.

Beeswax and almonds, the scent of books both new and old forever ingrained. Comforting in its mellow familiarity. She breathed in and for but a moment, she was once more a little girl in a blue dress on the hunt for her father.

The shelves stretched high to either side, making it impossible to peek over casually.

Just as he was about to complain and declare his hunt a failure, Findekáno sneezed bodily and suddenly there was the sound of movement, summoned by the absolute ruckus Findekáno had unleashed in the quiet workshop.

Turukáno mewled hoarsely for they had drawn _attention;_ The one thing Turukáno dreaded. Well, not the only thing... But it was one of the greatest terrors imaginable. And his brother had drawn it right towards them.

Standing next to their mother and grabbing for her hand like one about to drown, Turukáno drew a shuddering breath. He scented the floral scents wafting about, though it did absolutely nothing to quell his ever mounting dread.

The sensible thing in situations such as those, of course, was to clutch ever tighter to his mother and make distressed noises until this unwelcome bit of strangeness would finally stop. Surely his flailing would accomplish something, if only to make whatever stalked between the shelves so scarily to take pity on him.

Footsteps. Someone was approaching and that was exactly what he had _not_ wanted. Turukáno whined and tried to scramble further behind his mother for safety.

“Who's there--?” came the hesitant inquiry from the stranger across from them. There was no time for things like pleasantries because someone had _invaded_ and such things needed to be dealt with; Hopefully swiftly but most likely _awkwardly_.

A head poked from between the shelves and for the shortest of heartbeats he could have believed it to be Anairë stepping past the books. But that moment passed and Turukáno would not be fooled by this stranger.

Absolute defense in any way possible was the only way to be sure. The stranger did not look particularly threatening, but Turukáno screamed regardless. The cloying, nervous energy coiled tight in his belly demanded release in some form and this was as good as any. He screamed as if he had lost a leg, a holler to shake the walls. All present flinched and ears slammed against heads to protect from such noise. “Turu--!” Anairë called.

The elf who had rounded the corner looked awfully surprised by that and drew back at the shouting as he fell back into the passage he had just gotten out of.

“Atto, don't run away,” Anairë called to forehand any possibility of fleeing because chasing him down was not something she was looking forward to. He had the absolute advantage here.

Her father halted but looked spooked still. “I did not know you would visit.” His ears fell and making eye contact became very hard, “I must have forgotten--”

Anairë waved him off, empathetically nonchalant, “Oh no, no, it was on rather short notice. A trip outside the walls, a little adventure really. ”

Parmamo blinked, “...Ah.”

“ _Yes_...” She floundered for a moment. It was never an effortless thing to engage her father in any form of talk, it was not his nature to carry much of the conversation and while that made him an ideal listener, one needed to get to that part gradually. “I brought someone to meet you.”

Parmamo followed his daughter's motioning and was met with Findekáno's wide eyed stare. “...How nice.” He blinked, one ear rose awkwardly and Anairë saw him flail for something to say. “--Hello.”

Clearly it was on someone else to engage him. All of her hope for that lay on her oldest, for Turukáno was terrible busy trembling against her legs.

Findekáno, golden child of her heart, swooped in to the rescue. “You have so many books!”

And at ' _books',_ Anairë knew that they had earned Parmamo's tentative approval.

* * *

The topics on which Parmamo engaged freely, plenty and willingly were very few indeed. He was comfortable with that, Anairë certainly had had never witnessed her father unhappy about his narrow little niche. And if allowed, he eagerly shared his love.

Turukáno had stared with eyed at just about everything there was. Such strange and wondrous things, papers piled high, all with frayed edges.

“I have not yet trimmed them,” Parmamo informed, when Findekáno ran his fingers along the stack, Turukáno would have done the same but was too spooked.

Wood and cloth and thread that smelled of beeswax. Curved needles, brushes, a _ruler._ So many tools, laid out on tables, hanging from what few walls had not been covered in shelves. Such ordered clutter! Something not quite trepidation bloomed in Turukáno's mind and contemplation rooted him to the spot.

Findekáno, meanwhile, found no greater revelation in the myriad of tools and instead pulled a book from one of the shelves. He was too small the reach the crates lined near the hallway, already full of hay and, unsurprisingly, books. Boredom had come crawling again, faint yet, but unerring.

“They're _empty_!” Findekáno called, tedium once more chased off. A book with no words! No stories. No adventures. He had seen empty books in uncle Fëanáro's house, back when Nelyo and he had sneaked about, searching for secret things and mysteries. One never knew what might be hidden in the quaint, mostly quiet manse of his uncle. That was what made it a mystery.

Empty books had _seemed_ like a very compelling mystery, for where had the words gone and left behind only blank pages? That was until Nelyo had told him that uncle Fëanáro had not yet written into them and all books were empty until someone took a quill or charcoal to them. What a piece of work that had to be. When Findekáno was in want for a good story, he thought of one. Or asked Nelyo to deliver.

But these had been stored away, not yet placed on shelves. Here, there they sat, blank and mute, not yet filled with adventures and clever thoughts or perhaps a pretty sketch.

“You forgot to put words in,” Finno helpfully informed, for a room filled with empty books seemed like somewhat of an oversight.

“It is not my business to fill them,” Parmamo replied, “I merely provide the vessel for something to be profound in.”

“Oh...” Finno said. He made to carefully slide the book he had pulled out from the shelf back into its spot when Turukáno tugged at it. He did not resist and instead handed it over willingly.

Turukáno's hands ran over the cover and seemed quite taken by the golden floral decorations adorning the cover.

Findekáno, aside from the polite sort of interest that went no farther then the initial introduction of his grandfather's profession, looked around for something else to do. There were certainly enough strange sights and smells to explore and he vanished between the shelves to adventure for.

No such bravery from Turukáno, who stayed right were he had been left, though he seemed perfectly content with that.

They watched his quiet wonderment and Parmamo in particular wiggled his ears. Anairë could see him fumble for anything to say, blessedly trying to connect with his grandson, to make his daughter happy. Finally, “Does he like books?”

“Yes, he is very fond of the stitching,” she said as Turukáno ran his fingers over the waxed thread.

This seemed to be the right thing to say. With her father, the difference between books and writing was _very_ clearly defined. He held no particular fondness for words, had never bothered to peruse one of the filled results that lined the walls of Finwë's library and it was Airë who took care of letters and ordering forms.

“That's good,” Parmamo acknowledged as one of his ears drooped while the other rose. Apparently satisfied with how that conversation had gone, he blinked and seemed quite finished, ready to turn to something else until dragged back on topic.

Turukáno appeared unbothered. Perhaps they would get along in their shared awkwardness. Goodness knew Anairë could not quite relate to tied tongues and uneasy shuffling and if anyone had any chance at relating to that, it was the two of them.

* * *

They watched Turukáno waddle about in search of his brother until he vanished out of sight and Parmamo turned to his table to wax more thread.

“...Did-- you need a... a book?” her father asked without looking up but he sounded hopeful. Wanting a book would have meant nudging the conversation into a safe and well treadled territory.

“I only want for someone to tell me something I can agree with,” Anairë admitted. “Or listen and nod sagely. "Atto, I shall take anything at this point.”

“I see,” Parmamo said. The string was unrolled, one thump applying force to hold it against the block of wax where a grove had already been worn into, and dragged through. It was as much of an invitation as any to speak her mind.

And at this point, that was more than enough.

“--I do not share amil's confidence, nor her optimism. I wish I could, really, she makes it look so easy. It would make it all a little easier for me. But it is selfish to think that way, I know. I worry, atto, perhaps over nothing which would make it all the worse. Because at the end, if all of this is nothing but me being silly, what is all this for? All this fear that Turukáno suffers, all the worry? And if I do not treat this as I should? What if I was too lax?--”

Parmamo listened to his daughter's rambling lament and did not judge. Judging was another one of these things he was terrible at. Instead, he waxed string and blinked and offered no platitudes.

“--And I have to hear one more time to simply go to Indis and ask for help, I will climb on the top of Ingwë's Tower and dive through Finwë's roof--”

“...Oh...” Parmamo acknowledged, quietly concerned.

Anairë waved him off, for even if she was now spiraling into her own head, there was no reason to frighten her father. “I cannot jump that accurately and I dislike climbing, atto, you needn't worry,” Anairë assured but did not slow her pirouetting pacing.

“I'm glad,” Parmamo said.

"How did you manage?" Anairë asked softly and rubbed at her temple. 

“Ah... Luck, mostly. I know very little in regards on how to raise children. Quite frankly, there were times where I contemplated running off so someone skilled might do the task,” Parmamo said and continued to look down at his work. He re-spooled the now waxed string. “But I had nowhere to go; I am only good at this. And to be honest, I am glad I did not. It helped that you were not like your mother and I...”

“I turned out fine, atto,” she said and meant it wholeheartedly with the least of intents being that saying otherwise would have diminished her own character.  
  
“You did.” Wistfully, fondly, “The best thing I ever accomplished without compare,” Parmamo agreed without the slightest hesitation. Then, as if the thought had been stuck just under the ceiling and only now drawn attention to itself, he tilted his head up. “But that was in spite of our parenting rather than because of it...I think. I am not very self-aware when it comes to this...” It was said matter of factly, just another truth of the world one could do nothing for but accept it as the inevitable. "We considered giving you a sibling... But at that point you were ready to leave and my backlog was by then so vast that we could not justify another."

Parmamo hummed, a bland, unmelodious sound, more breath than sound, "Not to mention, it seemed rather cruel to gamble for a child that was perhaps not as self-sufficient as you were."

“You are unkind to yourself. Atar, _honestly_. I, for one, certainly could not think of a better father myself. Parents, for that matter. I certainly had no reason to complain.”

He blushed at that, as she knew he would, and smiled. A lady knew when to be forthright with the truth after all.

A clattering noise, something wooden, came from the far end of the room. Obscured by shelves and tables, she could not see the perpetrator but took her chance regardless. “Finno, what are you doing over there?”

“ _Nothing_!” came the all too fast reply and no one was convinced by the reassurance.

“Ai, he's going to take the whole place apart...” Anairë sighed as she made off towards the source to see what had happened and to pick up the pieces if necessary... At least there was no screaming.

“That's alright...” Parmamo said but Anairë had already rounded the shelves and there was very little he could do but remain where he was and see her go. “Ah-- well...”

If he had been a little faster, a little surer and just a tad less shy, he might have told his daughter that, if he had somehow managed to bring to fruition one such as her, there was very little to worry about with his grandchildren.

But he was none of these things and so these sentiments would have to wait until Anairë would inevitably come to the same conclusion. Oh well.

He turned around to his work and found the grandchild in question fumbling at the folding stick laid out there.

They were both spooked, deeply unsure of themselves. She could see it in the way their ears wandered to the sides of their heads and then straightened once more only to repeat the motion. Neither one fled and perhaps the sight of that would have eased Anairë's worry, had she still been present to witness this tentative approach.

* * *

The predicament in which Findekáno found himself in was, considering where they were, not all that surprising. The entire space around him was covered in paper, bundles already tacked together, loose ones that fluttered lightly and one half-finished with its wooden cover not yet bound in leather. He had, to his credit, already tried to gather them up. He clutched a few pages and turned to look at her, furiously blushing.

“Finno...”

“It just fell over, I didn't mean it!” Findekáno called, quieted down guiltily and pointed to the footstool that had spilled the offending papers like some great, all-encompassing deluge. “Amil, help me, please please?”

Anairë sighed, though it was one of sympathy. Had she, after all, not found herself in the centre's of such floods, too polite to step on and crumble clean papers? A great many distressed calls for help had been sounded in these halls, after all. The bleating of one too polite to trample books.

She leaned in closer, as well as she could without crinkling something, to better whisper her plan. “Come here, he won't have noticed. Hurry.”

Findekáno, now sworn accomplice, nodded fervently and together, with the speed of those who knew parental anger to be lurking just around the corner, they went to work.

* * *

Looking perfectly inconspicuous, ears splayed innocently, they returned to the table, sworn to mutual silence by a secret shared between them.

Turukáno, from the opposite side looked over at them, hands clamping on the wooden surface and pulled up until he was standing on his tip-toes until his nose reached over the table just so, stared at his grandfather and whatever it was he was doing.

When he spotted them, a little bounce entered his stretched position and he grabbed for something and hurried towards them, eager to show them something. In his uncurbed enthusiasm, it did not take long for him to trip and tumble.

Parmamo turned but otherwise the room froze. Turukáno, frazzled, picked himself up and looked quite surprised.

Anairë managed a single step towards him, arms just stretching out to him to help him up, that Turukáno remembered to screech at the indignity of it all. To make up for lost time, he screeched all the louder.

It had been a terribly exciting outing, that much was certain. And Turukáno had braved it all with such grace. But now was the very last straw and whatever composure Turukáno once might have had had been _used up_.

He sniffed quietly and that was all the warning she got before he started to weep miserably. Findekáno, summed by his little brother's distress came bounding around the corner summoned like a bloodhound on a fox.

There was a most valiant attempt at shushing him, Findekáno rubbed his back and Anairë murmured soft things as she cradled him, but all was for naught.

Turukáno wailed, great gasps in between the noises and tears rolling down into his collar and wetting his neck. This, miraculously, helped nothing in comforting him any.

Anairë could feel him blubber wetly against her neck, hands clawing into her hair. “It is perhaps time for a nap,” she surmised over the noise just as Airë and Lumbulener arrived, drawn by the noise.

* * *

Turukáno would not be swayed from his absolute meltdown, but he was well on his way to tiring himself out; The weeping had quieted to a low, continuous whine. The world had turned quite terrible, tired as he was, and nothing but a good rest would make it otherwise.

“There there,” she soothed while Findekáno reached up to rub Turukáno's back. “We will find a place for you to lay down, I think.”

“Would your old room suffice, heri?” Lumbulener, who had followed where her parents stayed behind to leave them space, asked from behind her. “I keep it in order and the bed is made.”

“That will more than enough I should think, thank you” she conceded and all three followed behind him, one child despairing and the other fussing over him.

* * *

“Too many dresses,” Findekáno decided after a cursory glance through Anairë's room. Far too few toys, no wooden swords nor fun things to throw, not even anything exciting on the walls. No, that was certainly not what he wished nor expected from a properly furnished living space. The mannequin with a half-finished gown still hanging from its shoulders, mocked him with its dullness.

“I was very fond of these,” Anairë said and smiled. The bed, the large indulgence of a bed, was indeed made, the pillows fluffed and the entire things smelled faintly of freshly washed linen. It would indeed more than serve. But for it to remain so perfectly untouched, safe the made bed... “I would have thought this would have all been cleared out to make room for something else.”

“ _Never_ ,” Lumbulener said and sounded quite indignant. “We promised to always have a room for you here.”

“How very sweet.”

Lumbulener hummed and made to turn the blankets over. Anairë could still see his pleased smile, even as he turned away.

Findekáno, meanwhile, had worries of his own and while Anairë tried to pry her fretting youngest from her neck, Finno pulled at her dress, “Are there any _toys_? What did you do for _fun,_ amil? Did you ever play?” Findekáno whined.

“Well, I played with my dolls, they might be here somewhere still,” she said and felt Turukáno's grip tighten around her neck not unlike a vice. “Turukáno, love, don't crush my neck,” she wheezed. Turukáno seemed not in the least inclined to heed her, instead he made soft fretting noises that rose in volume when she pulled at him.

He was tired enough to forego his skittish politeness and his shyness, but never tired enough to not be wary by this unfamiliar environment they expected him to sleep in. He whimpered and would not let go when Anairë tried to put him down. Instead he mewled and squeezed ever tighter, grabbing at collar and hair indiscriminately.

Findekáno was busy turning the room upside down in desperate search of something that would catch his interest and thus was of no help.

With the sound of him sniffling his nose back up, loud and wet, directly in her ear, she managed to pull his shoes off at the very least, perhaps it would make him a little more comfortable. But still Turukáno would not let go and instead he hung from her like a tiny bat clutching on for dear life. He squeaked like one too.

“Turu--”

But Turukáno would hear no platitudes and instead levelled her with a very cross stare. Anairë had not imagined being offered a fine bed would be cause for such ire, but here they were.

Findekáno came to her rescue. “Look, Turu, I'll go first; See?” Though he did not know and Turukáno would also reap the reward, else the screaming would level mountains, he had earned himself another dessert after dinner.

It was the duty of an older sibling to inch themselves into unknown danger first; To stick toes into ponds where one could not see the bottom of and try unknown, questionably dishes first, all so the younger might come away unscathed should any of it lead to harm. It was perhaps not an obligation asked for, but Finno had pledged himself to this responsibility regardless.

Bravely climbing on top of the mattress -he could feel Turukáno's eyes on him- delighting in its springiness that begged to be used to bounce atop and all the way to the ceiling, Finno rolled over along the entire length of it, crumbling bedding underneath his path, to show his brother that no monster hidden away through mimicry would suddenly spring to life and gobble him up.

“There, sweetheart, it's alright,” Anairë said to strengthen Turukáno's wavery resolve. Turukáno mewed and shook his head, ears plastered firmly to his skull, unconvinced.

Findekáno jumped to his feet, still on the bed which would have led to aghast reprimanding otherwise, “Look Turu, it's like back home!” and bounced about once, twice, and the third time made the bed groan in complaint. Before his mother could join in, he ceased his jumping and fell back into the pillows, laughing, “There, see?”

Indeed, Turukáno saw that nothing scary came bursting from under the bed. And though still uttering thoughtful murmuration, Turukáno allowed himself to be lowered, though he was as tense as a log. There was no bouncing, but he rolled up comfortably and yawned when he was tucked in.

But he still would not sleep. Instead he scrunched his face in a grimace speaking of endless condemnation and the promise of pouting forever if forced in there.

Findekáno had been easier when it came to napping. It had been enough to hold him somewhat horizontal, to stroke his head and make humming noises and Finno had been out like a candle in a rainstorm.

Turukáno... Well, he did not scream the house down any longer when tired, at least.

Now, Turukáno grabbed for his brother, even if he could barely meet his eyes, perhaps too ashamed for his request. But sleeping alone would be utterly impossible.

Anairë sighed quietly and smiled encouragingly at Finno. He would sacrifice time he had so clearly wished to fill with playing and she could hardly demand it of him.

But Finno was nothing if not perfectly gentle and generous with his brother and Anairë felt her chest ache with pride as Finno lay down next to his brother to keep watch over him.

“I suppose I can stay a little while,” Finno said and nodded to himself.

“That is very kind of you,” Anairë said, crooned quietly at the sight and vowed to go through the storage closet to see if any interesting bits and bobs and baubles could be dug out; The very least she could do to repay such dutiful brothering.

Turukáno blinked, halfway buried in the pillows and squished against his brother, finally enough at ease to at least consider napping. He scrabbled for Findekáno's hand underneath the blanket and inched closer.

Finno himself rolled over and flung his arms around his little brother.

“How very kind of you,” Anairë praised him as she pulled the blanket over them. “Watching out over your brother like that.”

Finno answered with quiet snoring. Ah well, he would be praised later, then. Such was only right. She would rifle through her belongings and see if there could not be something interesting be found.

Turukáno hardly seemed too far away from the same.

* * *

Airë had taken her work outside, to write under open sky. Damselflies flittered about, venturing bravely around the veranda on gossamer wings that glinted under golden light.

Anairë loved damselflies and their delicate, flittering dances. But of all those pretty things flittering about the gardens and beyond, the ladybugs, for reasons not all that hard to guess,, had captured her heart.

She lingered at the door frame and found the garden unchanged. Her favourite butterfly flowers remained where she had planted them so long ago, beseeched by swallowtails and cabbage whites.

“Just going to stand there?” Airë asked and patted the chair next to her. No more invitation was needed and she slid into the offered seat.

Papers covered the table in the sort of half-attempted and fast abandoned sort of not-order that drove Anairë up the walls. She was spoiled when it came to neat desks and sorted papers, Nolofinwe knew how to keep a workspace in order.

She could hardly come and complain to her mother about her own behaviour, now could she? Once more, she kept her peace.

Airë looked up, a smudge of ink at the corner of her lip somehow, “For a moment I had worried one of them had lost an arm, they way Turukáno was screaming.”

Anairë waved her off, “No, no, he does that on occasion.”

Airë nodded. “Useful that, I could hear him from the other side of the garden. You know, I wish I could be so confident that your father would do the same. I have _nightmares_ about finding him buried under one of his shelves because he is too polite to call for help.”

* * *

“But you are weird, of course you would say that.”

“So? Get him weird friends then, I still cannot see the problem, no matter how hard I try.”

“I do not want him to feel excluded from the rest.”  
  
That did it, apparently. Airë tilted her head, clapped her inkwell shut and leaned back. “Heripi, truly? Excluded? The princes? Anyone who is anyone will vie for his attention no matter what he does. Every child of Finwë's could have two heads for all the differences it would make.”

When Anairë made to argue, her mother cut her off, “The only thing that truly matters is to have _one_ who adores him truly as he is. I have your father, you have your Nolofinwe and Turukáno has Findekáno.”

“They are siblings,” Anairë pointed out.

“Aye,” Airë agreed. “And?”

Anairë shook her head and sighed. She rubbed her temple, for something thumped underneath it most insistingly. Nevertheless, there came a notion to mind. Just the feeble beginnings, not yet a full revelation. She grasped for it but it crumbled away as footsteps sounded on the patio.

“Amil...?” came Findekáno's little voice and when Anairë turned, he nearly vanished behind the door frame. His ears hung miserably and the way towards the veranda had doubtlessly spent in fretting and worrying.

Anairë felt that same worry replace what mirth she had felt while teasing her mother. She stood, Finno did not need prying to leave the door and he flew into her arms where he curled up, “What happened, Finno?” She saw no apparent injury on him, nor had he limped when he had hurried to her.

“I lost Turu!” Finno wailed and all pretence of the responsible oldest sibling crumbled away like malm before the sea. Weeping and soggy sniffing could be heard, felt, as he wept into her shoulder. Quieter, just as miserable, “I didn't mean to...”

Before anything else, there would be comforting. What a way to wake up, in an unfamiliar room, to a wayward brother. She hushed him whilst he blubbered quietly.

“Now now,” Airë interjected, “He can't have gone all that far; He has short legs.”

“And the greenery spooks him, we will find him, don't worry.”

She searched for a napkin in between the papers, surely Airë would not be happy if she used one of the ordering forms as a tissue.

* * *

With the little household now partially abuzz, Airë split from the group, searched out the usual places and found her duty done.

She could have hauled the child back to her fussing daughter, could have just as well called them here. But nothing of value would have been learned and a bit of excitement did wonders for the mood, probably.

So, knowing that her grandson was safe, happy and in no danger of fleeing or displacement, she retreated to the cellar door and unlatched it.

After the yelling and the fretting, there would doubtlessly be need of something to toast with and _that_ Airë could certainly provide with far better than advice.

Sweet, very sweet that their daughter had thought it prudent to involve them with something they were very much not qualified in dabbling with. Anairë had been easy to rear and instead of commend themselves on a job well done, they had counted themselves blessed by at least one Vala for not having bodged it all up...

But her mood descended with every step of cellar stairs, for it was here were all things that could have surely contributed to bodging up had been banished to. Not the wine, the bottles lay in their little rack undisturbed and blameless. But the door behind the wooden buttress...

Her own hobby and passion. Once carried down here when a tiny lady had wandered the halls and then never unearthed again. Not that Airë would have blamed her daughter for it... Anyone really, she supposed.

There had never been vilifying her work, no cruelty. She had been accepted,

Acceptance, yes. Perhaps not admiration and that had hurt, she could not deny that. But acceptance was well and good, she certainly did not wish to be _shamed_ for her passion. And did not Parmamo accept and love her for her practice even if no one quite understood her fascination? Yes, the one who had not recoiled from her finds at the Lake and instead only recognized talent and passion. She had bagged him before another could take him away and praise for something as mundane as stitching or painting or other such things.

Books were clean, beautiful things and to be obsessed with their creation something to be admired.

But making perfect displays of things no one needed, flawless stitching and life-like poses of what was little more than fur scraps... Why, no one had found _that_ inspiring. At best, Oromë had praised her desire to make use of otherwise discarded bones. Eating the choice bits of a deer was perfectly fine and finding ever new ways of preparation meat considered art. And yet when _she_ did something new...

One learned to live with the knowledge that one's passion would forever remain in the cellar, away from sensible eyes and sensitive elves who screamed at the sight of taxidermied squirrels. She set the bottle to her lips, strictly for taste testing purposes, of course. She could hardly serve her daughter anything less than the best, what mother would she be? Which also meant that this bottle would not go up and Airë could take her time removing this sub-par vintage before getting out the good one.

If nothing else, at least an excuse to unearth the wine.

So busy she was with her work, that she did not hear the little footsteps outside, the sudden stop and the creak of the door.

She did not hear Findekano, still on the search for his brother --ready to turn every nook and every mousehole inside out for Turukano-- clambering down the staircase and nudging the half-hidden door open.

Only when he hummed thoughtfully, did she whirl about, took in the sudden visitor making his way down into the darkness and folded her ears already flat against her head for the inevitable screaming that would follow. She whirled about and cursed the fact that she had left the door ajar.

There was no screaming yet, so perhaps he had not yet seen what lurked there. “...Nion?” she tried, treating softly as she searched for her grandson. 

“Haruni! You have weird things in your cellar,” Findekáno called from where he stared at the displayed form of a muskrat. Just... stared.

No crying nor hollering. That was certainly new. Had he waited for her to unlock the door in a planned attempt to snoop? Or had the half-ajar door proven too strong a temptation to resist?

“Are they animals? They are, right?” He looked at the preserved animals, his gaze wandered calmly until they fell upon her little collection of bones. These she had never quite grown fond off. Certainly it looked interesting. She had only done it to have done it and had shuffled them even deeper into the shadows than her usual pieces.

“They look really real. Just still.” Findekáno noted but seemed not particularly torn up about the matter. Indeed, animated he was, now that she thought about it.

She flicked her ears. What did one answer in situations such as these? “There is no cartilage to hold them up, no muscle. I use wires.” A part of her wished to explain her work, yearned for it. But she could not overwhelm him with details.

Finno gave a little thrill but his ears splayed to the side and he looked up at her, “Mhm...”

“Is something wrong?”

How thoughtful he stood there, with his forehead crinkled and wrinkled and his hand tap-tapping at his chin. Hard thinking was taking place, no doubt.

“I broke my arm once, do they look like that?” He sounded not at all perturbed nor dismayed at that.

Airë blinked and tried for words but turned up empty. What a curiosity. And so forthright. Anairë had never even come near the displays, much less think of touching them. But Findekáno strolled up to the carefully assembled deer and poked at the preserved fur.

How strange, Airë thought and flapped her ears once. But she could not leave well enough be and so had to prod, “Are you not...scared?” Which sounded self-defeating even to her own ears.

“Oh yes,” Findekáno beamed, “I _like_ being scared.” He turned around, surveyed the shapes hidden away in the half-gloom. Interest. Excitement. Ears curiously pivoting. “Do you have anything taller? With _teeth_?” he asked gleefully.

And then Airë listened _very_ carefully, for she had just found a cohort who shared her fascination. Without warning. “As it just so happens, I do. Say, how would a bear suit you?”

Findekáno's eyes glittered brightly in exhilaration and Airë, with unwavering certainty, knew that her grandson was a singular elf indeed.

* * *

“How did I just loose both my sons _and_ my mother in but the blink of an eye?” Airë asked the heavens when neither Airë nor a send after Finno returned. The heavens did not answer. Typically.

“There is nothing that ever got lost here and did not turn up again,” Lumbulener said, the only one who remained at her side. “The horses are still here, the pony nearly bit me, he cannot have gone far.” Thoughtfully, “Heinous creature that one, is there a reason why the young prince rides it?”

Another cabinet searched through and found empty. “Finno likes the difficult ones,” she said distantly and moved on.

“Ah... Well, someone has to, I suppose.”

Anairë was beyond idle humour. Was this his idea of lightening the mood? Perhaps. A valiant effort, but fruitless in the end. Already visions of horror streaked past her eyes and her step hastened towards somewhere she did not know.

“Are there any rabbit burrows or large holes around? If he has fallen into one...” The very thought was terrible. Her poor Turukáno, dragged into unknown places and driven to flee. What if he had fallen somewhere, injured himself? Squeaking miserably for help or perhaps made mute by his terror.

Something in her chest lurched, hitched painfully as if a fist clutched around her heart. What an awful, awful wretch she was. Her poor darling Turukáno.

...She should have gone to her in-laws... And this thought hurt too, though nothing could tear at her worse than the knowledge that her poor Turu had been lost to the unknown, wandered away, fled.

* * *

A fine mess she had made of things. Wholly unnecessary, too. She should have gone to her in-laws... And this thought hurt too, though nothing could tear at her worse than the knowledge that her poor Turu had been lost to the unknown.

Some deeply hidden but never abandoned part of her, perhaps the little girl, wished very much to sink to the floor and weep with abandon. If only she had done as all had told her...

A gloved hand settled on her shoulder, for such was the most Lumbulener would ever do when it came to breach the line between attendant and titled.

“I was selfish, Lumbulener,” Anairë confessed and grabbed blindly for his hand. The fabric of his speckless glove felt warm to the touch, soft like only well-cared for cotton could. “Had I simply swallowed my pride and gone to Finwë...”

Lumbulener listened and when Anairë was out of self-admonishment, he spoke. “There are none as far as I ever cared to venture in the gardens. The brambles are thick, I doubt anyone who had anything to lose would try to brave them, heri. He must be somewhere here.”

“...”

“Heri, please-- If all else fails, I shall ride into Tirion myself and request help myself.”

A Lady did not mope nor did she blubber about when others worked. A Lady bore up under any storm and what was this mess if not that?

“Yes. Yes, you are absolutely right,” she said and cleared her throat. The longer they lingered the longer this would continue. And by now Anairë was eager to leave this behind her, to go home and forget any of this mess had happened.

“Any advice?”

“None, heri. I have given up trying to understand their Lord and and Ladyship. I merely enjoy the outcome.”

She considered this for a moment, if only for the thought to distract her a little from the shame still burning her face. “Might be better that way... Shall we?”

“One more,” Lumbulener agreed.

* * *

Perhaps this had been a trial, a test of character. Or perhaps the Valar had taken mercy on her. Whatever it was, they returned to the kitchen where Parmamo rifled through the cabinets.

Unconcerned, unbothered, unaware, Parmamo had not been involved in the search, for what good would it have done to drag him out of his workshop? And yet he stood in the kitchen and searched through unfamiliar drawers.

He turned, saw his daughter and remembered to smile before he turned attentions towards his retainer. “Lumbulener, would you know where we keep the cups?”

There was still duty to attend to, work to do. Lumbulener pulled open the cupboard and pulled the requested cup out. “Did I forget to bring you one?”

“No,” Parmamo said, “I had mine, but Turukáno needs his own.”

Turukáno, who sat at the table, perfectly at ease, nudged the carafe on the table. Thirsty, visibly so, but too polite to guzzle straight from the source.

Neither one aware just what grief Anairë had gone through, both happy and at ease. That was alright, however. Because Anairë would spare no colourful descriptor in making that known.

Juice splashed because there was no time to set the cup down before she pounced on her youngest. This, too, was alright. A Lady knew her priorities after all.

* * *

“Amil! Can we come here more often?” Findekáno called, unaware or simply uncaring to his own vanishing and the worries Anairë had to endure. Because of course, now that she had calmed, everyone simply appeared out of the woodworks.

“We have returned!” Airë announced cheerfully. “And I brought wine.” She brandished an unopened bottle as Finno streaked past her towards his brother. The already opened one remained firmly with her.

“And where exactly were you?” Anairë admonished sharply, even as she fell upon her oldest son like a starved wolf. Finno yelped, squealed and returned the sudden affection eagerly.

Anairë, so appeased, turned her scorn to the other former fleer, “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Airë said and smiled.

Finno, once more released, took note of his brother.

“What do you have there?” Finno asked when he saw the little booklet, the pages stitched clumsily and the cover lovingly splashed with golden spiderweb lines that could perhaps have been vines.

Turukáno looked at his new treasure, turned and smiled brightly. Endlessly pleased he looked and no trace of discomfort remained.

Whatever it was Anairë had searched for coming here, perhaps she had found it in this moment.

Airë laughed, “I am glad I already fetched the wine; This is just the occasion, would you not agree heripí?” she asked and popped the cork. 

* * *

“Cheers my dears,” Airë said when cups had been filled. “To strangeness and normalcy alike.”

They toasted, Finno and Turu both with wine so diluted, it was little more than water and whatever worry had gripped her heart and darkened her thoughts was gone by the time the horses were fetched and goodbyes were exchanged.

“I like them,” Finno said after much waving, when the little house had vanished between shrubs and trees to continue its sleepy existence undisturbed.

“I am glad to hear it,” Anairë said and carefully brushed a lock of hair out of Turukáno's face. With both hands occupied clutching his little book, he could not also hold onto his brother. Anairë hardly minded having a rider with her.

In front of them, past warm, golden wheat swaying in the breeze, the towers of Tirion stretched high as if to receive them home.

* * *

The last bands of gold, already shot through with silver light, stole their way into the hallway and framed Airë and her efforts of straightening a length of paper.

Airë turned, driven by instinct, for Parmamo made no sounds when he walked. “Hello dear, nice to see you out and about.”

“I say, I don't know what came over me.” Thoughtful, slightly dazed from the previous events still, Parmamo cocked his head “What are you doing?”

Airë motioned to the wall that held the portraits and paintings. “Improving on perfection, hold it up for me?”

“Certainly.” Parmamo said, the drawing carefully held even. Airë moved in with the hammer. Resolute effort commerced and both stepped back to look at their work when it was done. Anairë's drawing had found company amongst equal masterpieces at last.

“Trees,” Parmamo noted after a while of silent admiring. “Good taste,” he finally decided.

Airë sidled closer to him, pulled at his arm to drape it around her shoulders. Her free hand stemmed against her hip and the hammer still dangling between her fingers, she tossed her hair. “I am not surprised; They have it from me.”

And since Parmamo knew this to be the truth, he agreed and leaned closer to his wife as silver fully overtook the sky.

* * *

Turukáno wrote and did not seem to care much that he was watched. Both the writing and him being so fully at ease were new and novel things. Very much welcomed, certainly.

Nolofinwe most of all marvelled at the sudden changes of things. His ears bobbed to the sound of Turukáno's quill confidently scratching away. The hardest part, surely, was not to draw attention.

But was that ever so hard when all he wished was to praise and to encourage his youngest.

Findekáno, meanwhile, appeared rather desperately trying to not blurt something out, the same lip chewing and the little side-long gazes Nolofinwe had witnessed when Findekáno had been tasked in keeping quiet about his father's begetting gift. Barely contained excitement and the need to share fully denied.

Nolofinwe gave him until bedtime before the cracks would show too greatly to ignore.

Next to Nolofinwe sat Anairë, humming contently as she embroidered a kerchief. When she felt his gaze upon her, she turned. “Something the matter, dear?” Anairë asked.

“No, not at all.” He leaned a little closer, so Turukáno would not hear them talking about him. Unlikely that he paid much attention, busy as he was, but one could never be too careful. “Glad to see that your venture was successful.” He turned a little, to regard Turukáno and his scribbling with wonderment and awe. “Incredibly so. What did your parents say?”

“Oh, well, this and that and other things. You know them. Books were brought up, as they tend to do.”

“How unusual for them, indeed.”

“Don't be sarcastic, how unbecoming. What matters is the result, now is it?” Perhaps not the result she had ventured out for. But was that truly so bad? To try and then to worry about things she had no control over? No, she was quite done with that. Turukáno would speak when he was ready and not a moment sooner. He was happy regardless. That was what really did matter.

Anairë hummed happily at the thought.

“I am glad that you feel better about the matter,” Nolofinwe said and made to peek a little more over the edge of the sofa.

To see Turukáno so transformed filled him with no small amount of pride. Also there was the now proven fact that he had been right about the writing.

“Which reminds me,” Anairë searched for her delicate scissors to snip the thread still connected to her work. “What would you think about tea with your parents?”

“Gladly, it will hopefully silence the demands. Whilst you were gone, I was accosted several times; Nearly ambushed by mother and I only wish father was that subtle.”

“My poor Nolofinwe,” Anairë said and poked him. “We shall try to appease your parents, so you may conduct your business untroubled in the future.”

“If you would,” Nolofinwe agreed and dragged himself off the couch to play with Findekáno.

Anairë watched them, happy and satisfied, and went off to the kitchen to notify the cook for two additional desserts. A lady kept her word, after all, even if it was only to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heripí: Ladybug  
> Nion: Honeybee


End file.
